


To Serve is Divine

by bilexualclarke



Series: The 100 Kink Meme [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Underage - Freeform, bodyguard!Bellamy, princess!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilexualclarke/pseuds/bilexualclarke
Summary: He hadn’t known much about Clarke Griffin before taking the assignment. For what he’s getting paid, he doesn’t even think to look much into her. Figures he’ll just be trailing some overachieving teenager around a castle, hopes there’s someone halfway attractive employee on the grounds for an occasional fuck. Maybe once in a while he’ll have to throw a few punches or empty a clip into someone’s chest, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. Overall, he’s expecting this to be another run of the mill assignment.He could not have been more wrong.prompt: Actual princess Clarke and bodyguard Bellamy. Clarke hates having a bodyguard, so she gives him hell. Teases him at first, tries to get a reaction. then, knowing he has to be with her at all times she starts undressing in front of him, and then masturbating. Finally, he snaps.





	To Serve is Divine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/gifts).



Bellamy Blake is good at his job. A childhood marred by gang violence and two tours with the Navy SEALs has transformed him into a weapon, his body a machine built to assess threats and eliminate them by any means necessary. He has accrued an impressive record in his twenty-eight years, so it comes as no surprise when Queen Abigail Griffin of Arkadia hires him to be the personal bodyguard for her daughter. The princess’s sixteenth birthday had been spoiled by an assassination attempt, a bomb detonated in the palace ballroom by a man posing as one of the kitchen workers. He’s on a plane halfway across the world within the week.

 

He hadn’t known much about Clarke Griffin before taking the assignment. For what he’s getting paid, he doesn’t even think to look much into her. Figures he’ll just be trailing some overachieving teenager around a castle, hopes there’s someone halfway attractive employee on the grounds for an occasional fuck. Maybe once in a while he’ll have to throw a few punches or empty a clip into someone’s chest, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. Overall, he’s expecting this to be another run of the mill assignment.

 

He could not have been more wrong.

 

Clarke Griffin is a hurricane compressed into human form. She has a mind that runs a mile a minute, a spitfire attitude, and an absolutely sinful pair of tits. From the day Bellamy sets foot in the palace, she seems to have made it her mission to give him hell. He had the pleasure of overhearing the screaming match she had with her mother on the day of his arrival, and ever since she has deigned it her life’s purpose to make sure he pays for daring to accept his new position.

 

First, she tries to escape him. She gets the jump on him a few times, having lived in the castle her whole life, but Bellamy is a quick study. He gets ahold of the blueprints of the grounds, spends hours lurking around the corridors at night after she has gone to bed, cataloguing every twist and turn and hidden passageway. Within a few weeks, there is nowhere she can go that he can’t follow.

 

This puts her in a sour mood, and Clarke seems to realize that if she can’t escape him, she must annoy him. She blasts her music at levels so high the walls rattle, badgers him with questions about his past, his life in America. She’s a sharp one, always picking the questions she inexplicably knows will get under his skin.

_Why don’t you talk about your family?_

_Why did you elect that asshole for a President?_

_How many people have you killed?_

 

For as much as she drives him up a wall, Bellamy has to give her a little credit. In the brief moments where she isn’t actively trying to make him miserable, she is actually a fairly impressive young woman. She works diligently at her studies and always gets high marks. He’s caught a few glances at the sketchbook she keeps in her nightstand and her drawings show an impressive amount of skill for someone so young. From watching her speak at some of her parents’ functions, he can tell that she truly does care about her country, something that most governing officials lack nowadays. If she wasn’t such a goddamn brat toward him all the time, he might be able to enjoy her company.

 

“I’m taking a shower,” Clarke announces suddenly one evening. She stands, closing her sketchbook and cracking her knuckles. They had been having a surprisingly calm night, with her so intently focused either on her phone or her sketches that she hadn’t even noticed him change the channel from a reality show to a documentary on guerilla warfare.

 

“Be safe,” Bellamy teases. She flips him off before flouncing into the en suite and locking the door behind her, something he has told her time and time again never to do.

 

_“It makes it that much harder for me to get to you if there was an emergency,” he had snapped at her two weeks ago after she had locked it behind her for the umpteenth time. “A few added seconds that could mean life and death.”_

_“Why don’t you just come in with me then? You could hold the toilet paper while I shit,” she had yelled back._

_“Real classy, Princess.”_

_“Fuck you, Bellamy.”_

 

Wouldn’t you like to, _he had almost said, barely able to bite his tongue. He’s not stupid, he’s seen the way her eyes have lingered on his arms, his lips, the way his pants hug his impressive bulge whenever he sits down. He knows the effect he has on people, knows that part of the reason she enjoys messing with him so much is because it gets her a little hot. That’s why he can’t help but egg her on from time to time. Can’t deny the way that the flush on her cheeks and fire in her eyes gets him a little hot, too._

_“If someone wants to murder me while I shave my legs, then so be it. I value my privacy over my life.”_

_“Your mother would disagree,” he had said._

_“All my mother is concerned about is not losing her most prized possession. If my death could work in her favor, you’d be off the payroll in a second.” And with that, she had slammed the door, locked it, and had shoved the vanity table up in front of it for good measure._

It takes Bellamy a few moments to catch on to the suspicious sound of running water from the bathroom. The shower is on, but as he creeps up next to the door he doesn’t hear the usual splash patterns that indicate that there is a body underneath the spray. He knocks, calls Clarke’s name.

 

No response.

 

He knocks again, calls her name louder.

 

Nothing.

 

“Fuck,” he groans, then raises his voice. “Clarke, if you’re in there, I’m coming in.”

 

Taking a few steps back, he lands a well-placed kick right next to the doorknob. It gives easily, and when he bursts into the bathroom it takes a moment for the steam to disperse before his eyes land on the window in the far corner, the one that only him and Marcus Kane, the head of the Queen’s security detail, have the key to. The one whose lock has been obviously broken open.

 

“Goddamn it, Clarke,” he sighs.

 

It doesn’t take long to find her. She doesn’t know that he tracks her phone, so one quick look at her location tells him that she hasn’t left the palace grounds. He assesses the view from her bathroom window, pictures her scaling the side of the building and climbing onto the balcony of her bedroom. The curtains had been drawn over the French doors so he wouldn’t have been able to see her as she climbed onto the landing and then into the upstairs window. Cursing himself, he is about to turn back inside when a movement down below catches his eye.

 

Clarke’s bedroom overlooks the sprawling palace garden. He is just able to make out a flash of blonde hair before it disappears behind one of the immaculately groomed hedges.

 

 _Gotcha_.

 

He decides not to alert Kane. No use in putting the whole palace on lockdown and giving Queen Abigail another reason to start one of her and Clarke’s famous screaming matches. He has this under control.

 

The moans start to reach him as he tiptoes through the elaborate garden. A few hushed giggles, some whispers he can’t make out, a low groan. He turns a corner and finds them sprawled over one of Queen Abigail’s custom-made decorative benches, Clarke and the son of that prick Duke Collins, the latter with his hands under Clarke’s shirt. He sees red.

 

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Bellamy growls, stepping forward and grabbing what’s-his-face by a handful of his greasy hair and yanking him backwards. Clarke leaps to her feet, hurriedly adjusting her shirt and watching in horror as Bellamy drags the boy away from her.

 

“Bellamy, stop it!” Clarke shrieks, smacking his arms and chest until he releases the boy. “You fucking psycho! Finn, are you okay?”

 

The boy, _Finn_ , crawls a few feet away in the dirt, wincing and rubbing his scalp.

 

“What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” he spits. “Do you _know_ who my father is?”

 

“Does it look like I give a shit?” Bellamy tucks Clarke, angry tears streaming down her cheeks, behind him. “You lay a finger on her again and I’ll break each one of them.”

 

With that, he grabs Clarke by the arm and drags her back inside.

 

“I hate you,” she hiccups all the way to her room. “You’re such an asshole. You humiliated me.”

 

“I saved you from a fumbling teenage boy who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” Bellamy scoffs as he closes the door to her suite behind them. “Some day you’ll thank me.”

 

“What do you know?” Clarke swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “I’m not allowed to do _anything_. I just wanted to have fun.”

 

“You weren’t going to find it with him, Princess.” Bellamy whirls around when something soft hits the back of his head. He turns to find one of Clarke’s throw pillows at his feet. “All a guy like that is good for is pawing at you for a few minutes before jizzing his pants. Is that what you call fun?”

 

Clarke throws another pillow at his head, but he ducks just in time. “You don’t know anything about him!”

 

“You only want him because he gives you attention,” Bellamy snaps. “He’d never leave you satisfied and you know it. A brat like you needs a real man to give you sa good and proper fuck.”

 

They both freeze as the weight of his words settle. Clarke’s eyes are wide, mouth agape. Bellamy wants the ground to swallow him whole.

 

_Fuck. She’s going to tell the queen. I’m going to be beheaded._

 

Then he notices the blush creeping up Clarke’s neck, the way her breaths seem to be coming quicker, her chest rising and falling rapidly. His cock stirs when he notices her beaded nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt. Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, Clarke cuts him off.

 

“I-I,” she stutters, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. “I’m going to bed.” Before he can say anything she turns and scurries into her room, closing the door behind her and leaving him standing in the middle of her suite, blissfully unaware of the torture that is to come.

 

* * *

 

Clarke is a new person the next morning. She is cordial to him over breakfast, listens to her music with headphones on instead of blowing out her surround sound speakers, asks him if he has a preference for what she puts on the TV. All day long he’s waiting for the ball to drop, but when it comes time to retire for the evening and he still has a job, he figures that maybe a figurative firm hand had been just what Clarke needed to quit behaving like a brat.

 

He figures wrong.

 

Part of being Clarke’s personal bodyguard means sleeping in the room directly next door. For an elaborate palace, the walls are remarkably thin, and so most nights he is able to hear Clarke tossing and turning about. Occasionally snoring.

 

That night, just as he is starting to drift into sleep, a sharp cry reaches his ears. Bellamy sits upright, immediately alert. His fingers grip the pistol beneath his pillow. Another cry filters through the walls, softer, and followed by a gasp. He knows those sounds. Been responsible for his fair share. He releases the gun and moves closer to the wall, pressing his ear against it.

 

Clarke whimpers again, then there is some rustling, and he can barely make out a soft buzzing sound.

 

“Fuck,” Clarke gasps, and he is immediately hard as a rock. He listens as her moans grow louder, the buzzing grows stronger. By the time she comes, his cock is so stiff it just might tear through his pajama pants. It only takes a few hurried strokes of his own hand before he’s shooting off, biting into his forearm to muffle his own groans.

 

Every night is the same. She gets louder and louder as the time goes on. Sometimes he can hear porn filtering through the walls, too. Bratty little girls being tossed around and fucked into oblivion by the men who know how to take care of them. Know how to give them what they need. Every night Bellamy gets off to the sound of Clarke making herself come. Putting on a show for him.

 

It’s even worse during the day.

 

Clarke showers with the door open now, the tendrils of steam dancing invitingly out the door, daring Bellamy to look inside. She masturbates in there, too. Brings her vibrator with her and sits in her giant clawfoot tub for nearly an hour, not bothering to hide her moans as she gets off with him just a few feet away. He has a perpetual crick in his neck from keeping it so stiff, using all his willpower not to turn his head and look at where he knows she is spread out, hot and wet and naked, waiting for him to watch her come.

 

She changes in front of him, too. Announces that she is going to shower, or get ready for bed, or go work out, and then starts peeling off her clothes right there in front of her as she walks to her dresser. He grows mesmerized by the smooth curve of her spine, the dimples adorning her lower back. The inviting, creamy skin of her thighs. The sharp jut of her collarbones.

 

It drives him crazy. His mind is all Clarke, all the time. He wakes chasing the sharp taste of her cum on his tongue, torturous remnants of the dreams that plague him. He falls asleep to thoughts of her perfect tits, imagining their weight in his hands. The rosy pink of her nipples. He wonders if it will match the pink of her cunt.

 

Sometimes it’s tough to remember that he has an actual job to do. A few months have passed since the attempt on Clarke’s life, and the queen has loosened her leash a bit. Clarke attends royal functions on the weekends, spends some evenings after her tutoring sessions doing some charity work around the city. Her mother’s enemies are numerous, however, and Bellamy manages to foil three more attacks before Clarke even know they’re there.

 

In a way, her antics have helped to renew his passion for his work. He’s grown fond of her in a way he never expected, in a way he doesn’t like to dwell on for too long. The thought of someone laying a hand on his princess, of taking away what’s his, ignites a fury in him that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

 

They reach the point of no return on the night that Clarke invites her friend Raven over for a sleepover. It’s her first act of semi-freedom in months, and she is practically vibrating with excitement all day. Bellamy pretends not to see anything when Clarke sneaks a bottle of wine from the kitchen, figures he can let her have what little fun she’s allowed.

 

He lounges on the chaise in Clarke’s living room, flipping through his battered copy of _The Aenid_ while listening to intermittent giggles and shouts filter out of Clarke’s bedroom. They get louder throughout the night and he’s sure the bottle of the wine grows lighter with them. Once it hits midnight, Raven stumbles out of the room and gives him a mock salute.

 

“It’s time for bed,” she hiccups. “You’re off duty, officer.”

 

“I’m never off duty,” Bellamy says, but he offers her a fond smile as he stands and tucks the book into his back pocket. “Goodnight, Raven.”

 

“Goodnight, Baloney.”

 

By the time he has changed into his pajamas and washed up, the whispers and giggles from Clarke’s bedroom have ceased. Bellamy settles into bed, eyelids already feeling heavy, and figures he can get another chapter in before sleep takes him. He’s barely a few pages in before he hears his door creak open and timid feet pad across the wood.

 

“Clarke,” he says as she turns the corner, her body a silhouette in the dim light of his bedside lamp. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I was hoping you’d be up,” she whispers as she gets closer. She stumbles over her own feet and he jumps out of bed to steady her, a hand on each arm.

 

“You’re still drunk?” he asks when he catches a whiff of her breath, and she beams up at him.

 

“Finished the bottle once Raven fell asleep.”

 

“Lightweight.”

 

“I like it.” Clarke bites her lip and drags her eyes over his body. His naked chest, the pajama pants slung low on his hips. “It makes me feel good. Warm.”

 

“Clarke,” he says again, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her upper arms. All she’s wearing is an oversized tee that hits mid-thigh, so big it’s practically falling off one shoulder. “What do you need?”

 

“I don’t know,” she pouts, her big baby blues staring up at him through her eyelashes. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out all this time. Haven’t you heard me?”

 

His cock stirs at her words. “’Course I’ve heard you,” he says gruffly. “Sounds like you’ve got it figured out to me.” _If the sounds of her having an orgasm constantly ringing in his ears is enough to go by._

 

“I can’t stop thinking about what you said.” She drags one long, perfectly manicured finger down the line of his sternum. “About how I need a real man to make sure I get properly fucked.”

 

“I shouldn’t have said that.” _But I meant it._

 

“But you meant it,” Clarke challenges, not taking her eyes off his.

 

He doesn’t stop her fingers as they trace patterns around the waistband of his pants, his abdominal muscles clenching under her touch. He’s fully hard now, his cock forming an impressive tent the loose fabric. Clarke’s eyes widen when she finally looks down and sees it, flinching away as if it scares her.

 

 _Good_.

 

But then she squares her shoulders, her brow furrowed in concentration, and reaches for him. He is barely able to choke down the strangled groan that threatens to escape him at the feeling of her small hands grasping clumsily at his dick. She gropes him for a moment, getting used to the feeling of him, fumbling as she tries to stroke him over the fabric of his pants.

 

“Wow,” Clarke breathes, bringing her other hand up to cup his balls. “It’s so…I didn’t know they could be this big.”

 

Something inside Bellamy snaps at this. It’s all been too much, the weeks of immature behavior, the teasing, her seemingly endless masturbating. Through it all he’s been strong, never feeding into her carefully constructed performance. He’s kept her safe from all threats—foreign, domestic, and teenage assholes alike. He’s practically been a goddamn saint, and where has it gotten him? Standing like a statue in his broom closet of a bedroom in a fucking castle while a drunk princess fondles his junk like it’s her new toy. So he says:

 

“Why don’t you give it a taste, hm?”

 

She inhales sharply, staring up at him in surprise. “W-what?”

 

“Go on.” Bellamy guides her hand underneath the elastic waistband, relishing in the feeling of her soft, warm palm pressed against his throbbing cock. He can see the shock in her eyes, the myriad of emotions flitting across her face. Confusion. Apprehension. Intrigue. Fear.

 

“You want me to…to…”

 

Bellamy tenderly brushes a stray curl away from her face, then fits his hand around the back of her neck. Her lower lip trembles and his cock pulses in her grip.

 

“Suck my cock, Princess.”

 

He applies pressure to her neck, guides her to her knees. She doesn’t fight him, just stares up at him with those big blue eyes as if she can’t believe what’s happening. As if she hadn’t been thinking about this exact moment all those times that she had played with herself, putting on a show for him.

 

He steps out of his pants, his heavy cock bobbing in front of her face, brushing against her chin. She licks her lips.

 

“I don’t know how.”

 

Bellamy smirks, clucking his tongue sympathetically. “Of course you don’t.” The hand on the back of her neck drags her closer. The head of his cock brushes her cheek. “That’s what I’m here for.”

 

Clarke opens her mouth tentatively, a bead of precum staining her lower lip. She raises her hand to wipe it off, but he swats it away.

 

“Come on,” he murmurs, gripping her chin and forcing her mouth open wider. “Use your mouth.”

 

She tries in earnest now, breathing in through her nose as she closes her mouth around him. She hallows her cheeks as she sucks, bobbing her head, trying to take as much as she can. He’s not even halfway inside.

 

“More,” he tells her. “You can take more.”

 

She releases him with a gasp, glaring as she drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing a vein. Once he’s nice a slicked up with her spit she tries again, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. His eyes flutter shut when he hits the back of her throat and she gags around him. She moves to pull back, but he grabs a fistful of her hair and keeps her in place, making her take it.

 

“You’re okay,” he soothes her, rubbing a thumb across her cheekbone. “Just breathe, Princess. That’s it. _Fuck_.”

 

She takes to it easily, but that’s no surprise. Bellamy knew that all she needed was a little guidance to turn her into the cockslut he knew she could be. He has half a mind to try and push her, to see if he can fuck her throat, but he doesn’t want to scare her off yet. She looks like she’s enjoying it now, using her two little hands to stroke his cock in tandem where her mouth can’t reach. When she pulls off to take a deep breath, a thin line of spit connects her lips to the head of his dick. The sight is nearly enough to make him blow his load, and as much as he wants to see his cum decorate her pretty little face, he’s able to hold himself back.

 

“Come on,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “Go lay on the bed.”

 

“Did I- did I do okay?” Clarke asks, swallowing thickly and wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

A wave of unexpected affection surges through him. It’s enough to make him pull her close, to capture her mouth in a searing kiss. Her surprised squeak gives him a dirty thrill—she just had his cock in her mouth, but a kiss is what catches her off guard?

 

“Yes, baby,” he says, nipping at her lip. “You did so good.”

 

“Are you going to fuck me now?”

 

Her voice shakes as she asks, but despite her nerves, she’s clenching her thighs together and a delicious flush is making its way up her neck.

 

“Yeah,” Bellamy says gruffly, his hands finding their way to her delicate waist and giving her a squeeze. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

 

Clarke’s breath hitches. “Will it—is it going to hurt?”

 

“Oh, Princess.” He guides her to the bed, tucking a pillow under her head and settling between her legs. She trembles as he runs a hand beneath her shirt, up the smooth expanse of her stomach, to rest right above her heart. It beats rapidly under his touch. “Of course it’s going to hurt.”

 

Clarke whimpers, but he soothes her with another searing kiss.

 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby. You’ll be okay, I promise. Do you trust me?”

 

She nods.

 

“Good.” Bellamy sits back on his heels, rubbing at her thighs. “Now take off your shirt. Let me see those pretty tits.”

 

Her oversized nightshirt hits the floor, and with the baggy fabric gone he is shocked to find that she isn’t wearing any panties. She’s wet, her thighs slick and shiny with her juices. Her cunt is shaved on the sides, but a small patch of blonde curls rest at the top of her mound. He’s so distracted by the sight that he doesn’t immediately notice the way she’s crossed her arms over her chest.

 

“None of that,” he admonishes her, peeling her arms away and exposing her tits. Her skin is milky white, her nipples puffy and pink. He can’t stop himself from taking one into his mouth, giving it a strong suckle that makes her gasp and clutch at his hair. They’re soft and heavy in his hands, and her thighs part on their own accord at his ministrations. When he presses harder against her, his cock slips between her legs and drags against her folds.

 

“Oh my God,” she whispers as Bellamy grinds his cock against her clit. He can smell her arousal, the heady scent of her cunt going to his head and nearly making him dizzy. He needs to taste her.

 

“Anyone ever get a taste of this sweet pussy, Princess?” he asks, kissing and playfully biting down her torso until he is situated between her legs. Her cunt is a flushed pink, her clit a swollen nub jus begging to be sucked. She tries to squirm away from his gaze, to close her legs and turn away, but he forces them apart and lands a mean slap to her inner thigh.

 

“If you didn’t want me to look at your cunt, you shouldn’t have started playing games,” he snaps, slapping her again. Her cunt pulses around nothing, more of her wetness dripping out and staining the sheets. “Now answer me.”

 

“No,” Clarke whimpers, face burning. “No one’s ever…tasted me.”

 

“And no one else ever will.” Bellamy licks a broad stripe up her slit, the taste of her washing over his tongue. She’s earthy and acidic, with a sweetness that makes his cheeks ache. “This is mine now.”

 

She whines as he sucks on her clit, curling closer and chasing his touch. Her hips start to rock against his face, and he allows it for a minute, letting her take what she needs from him before deciding he’s waited long enough. Now that he’s had a taste, he knows he’s going to spend hours buried between her legs in the future, but right now it’s time for her to take his cock.

 

He spits on her flushed cunt to slick her up—not that she really needs it—and sits up, positioning his cock at her entrance.

 

“Wait,” Clarke says, sitting up. “No, I—You won’t fit.”

 

He laughs darkly, pressing against her entrance, teasing her open. “Baby, you were made to take a cock like mine.”

 

She’s almost right. Her cunt’s so tight he nearly blacks out, her _wethotperfect_ walls squeezing him so tight he can barely fit halfway inside her. Clarke whimpers in pain, the tears welling in her eyes making his cock throb. He pushes all the way in with one smooth thrust and she cries out so loud he slaps a hand over her mouth. When he pulls out again, he can see a faint ring of red around the base of his dick.

 

“Gotta stay quiet,” he reminds her, fucking her open with slow, shallow thrusts. “Christ, baby, you’re taking me so well.”

 

She relaxes soon enough, her hitched breaths turning into shocked gasps, and then low moans. They increase in volume until he’s forced to flip her over, shoving her face into the pillows and fucking her from behind. Her cunt is even tighter this way, her perfect ass bouncing with each thrust. His dick is covered in the cream of her cunt, so much of it that it stains his crotch, drips down her thighs. He catches some of it with his thumb and teases it over her asshole, a wicked feeling overtaking him when she squeals and jerks away.

 

“You’re doing so good, baby, taking my cock like a perfect little slut,” Bellamy groans. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you. Wish we could stay here forever, letting you suck me off and take my cock ‘til it’s all you know how to do.”

 

“Yes,” Clarke gasps, grasping frantically at the sheets. “Yes, yes, Bellamy _ohmygodfuckyes_ , I’m-I’m-”

 

“That’s it,” he growls. “Come all over me, baby. Show me how much you like it.”

 

Clarke squirts when she comes, soaking his crotch and staining the bedsheets. The pulsing of her cunt sends him over the edge, and he grips her hips so tight they’ll bruise, keeping her pressed against him as he shoots his cum deep inside her. Her legs are trembling and once he pulls out she collapses, curling onto her side and gasping for breath, seemingly unbothered to lay in the puddle of her own cum.

 

“Goddamn,” Bellamy mutters to himself. He disappears for a minute, ducking into his bathroom to clean himself up. Next time he’ll have her do it, make her lick him clean like a good little slut, but for now he lets her rest. By the time he comes back to the bedroom and slips back into his pants, she has passed out, her relaxed face a picture of bliss.

 

Carefully, he slips her shirt back over her head and scoops her into his arms. He pads into her room, his nearly-silent footsteps masked by Raven’s snores. Bellamy gently places her down onto her bed, tucks her in. Before he leaves, he can’t help but take a peak between her legs, where his cum is starting to drip down her thighs.

 

“Goodnight, Princess,” he whispers reverently. _The fun I’m going to have with her…_

 

Clarke sighs, a soft smile gracing her face as she curls into her pillow. She sleeps sound.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr as bilexualclarke :)


End file.
